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Visit the new exhibition at the Mnemosyne Museum
*50% of the proceeds will go towards research into childhood illnesses linked to the containment of magic
Two tickets cost ten sickles, so James bought four.
'The Melpomene Hall must be here somewhere— Ah, there it is!'
James grabbed Sirius' hand and pulled him to the left, away from the marble Dionysus, to whom Sirius was about to donate a few knuts for a glass of wine from the small but thick seat. The young witch was pouring herself another glass and looked as if she could live on the drink alone—Sirius had to try it.
Tragedy was written in large letters above the entrance, the font imitating the columns of Greek temples. The words Melpomene Hall were smaller in comparison and rather standard, Sirius noticed. The image of the muse Melpomene herself, made in white mosaic in the coloured walls on either side of the arch, seemed to him surprisingly beautiful, something he could not say about the paintings. James soured too.
'Well,' said James. 'Perhaps the next ones are better.'
They went up to each painting, reading the brief descriptions and talking quietly among themselves.
'This one looks better than the one with the mermaids,' said Sirius. They both agreed that the mermaids—and they had seen enough of them—looked very sickly, and yet surprisingly realistic, as if they were about to float out of the painting and infect them with some sort of merosis. Neither James nor Sirius wanted a sudden allergy to water and a craving for raw fish.
'Is that ink? That's ink. It flows so beautifully.'
'Forget-me-nots by the Shack at the End of the Village,' Sirius read aloud. 'Author Lord Voldemort.'
James snorted and covered his mouth with his hand, hoping his laughter would be mistaken for a cough. The lady in the fresh bog dress and the hat with the stuffed raven on it glared at them.
'I think I know who it is,' said Sirius confidently.
'Really? We're always together. I didn't know you'd made friends with the Lord behind my back,' said James, almost offended.
'Don't be silly, Prongs. This is the same genius Dumbledore mentions in every speech to the seventh years.'
James leaned forward and examined the dark painting more closely. Among the black and gray inky smears he noticed blue—the colour of the same forget-me-nots, clear as a cloudless sky.
About the author: Born in a Muggle orphanage on New Year's Eve 1926. Entered Hogwarts on a Muggle-born scholarship. Became the best student of the century and remains so to this day, passing twelve O.W.L.s and ten N.E.W.T.s. Travelled all over Muggle and magical Europe, gaining undeniable magical experience from masters of potions, charms, and transfiguration. Now he writes articles for professional magazines, consults on the handling of dark artifacts and paints pictures, reflecting grief, redemption, and longing.
'The constellation is wrong,' Sirius interrupted James' train of thought.
'What constellation? There are no stars here.'
'There they are, turned into flowers. Seven forget-me-nots as seven Pleiades. Merope might be paler.'
Author's note: This painting, like many others, is dedicated to my mother, Merope.
'The author's note says that was the name of Lord Voldemort's mother, and it was to her that he dedicated the painting,' said James.
Sirius hummed and immersed himself in the painting. To his regret, which he expressed with a heavy sigh and a sad look, the painting was not for sale, but they had found another, by the same artist and in the same style. A Muggle train, line for line, similar to the Hogwarts Express.
Sirius bought the painting.
'Thank you, Dumbledore's pet, for depicting the meeting place perfectly. It will fit in the shop.'